Doctor’s Orders
The Complete Series
Lilian Monroe
Contents
Foreword
Doctor O
1. Valerie
2. Clay
3. Valerie
4. Clay
5. Valerie
6. Clay
7. Valerie
8. Clay
9. Valerie
10. Clay
11. Valerie
12. Clay
13. Valerie
14. Clay
15. Valerie
16. Clay
17. Valerie
18. Clay
19. Valerie
20. Clay
21. Valerie
22. Clay
23. Valerie
24. Clay
25. Valerie
26. Clay
27. Valerie
28. Clay
29. Valerie
30. Clay
31. Valerie
32. Clay
33. Valerie
34. Clay
35. Valerie
36. Clay
37. Valerie
38. Clay
39. Valerie
40. Clay
41. Valerie
42. Clay
43. Valerie
44. Clay
45. Valerie
46. Clay
47. Valerie
48. Clay
49. Valerie
50. Clay
Epilogue
Doctor D
1. Emma
2. Emma
3. Elliot
4. Emma
5. Elliot
6. Emma
7. Elliot
8. Emma
9. Emma
10. Elliot
11. Emma
12. Elliot
13. Emma
14. Emma
15. Elliot
16. Elliot
17. Emma
18. Emma
19. Elliot
20. Emma
21. Elliot
22. Emma
23. Elliot
24. Emma
25. Elliot
26. Emma
27. Elliot
28. Emma
29. Elliot
30. Emma
31. Elliot
32. Emma
33. Emma
34. Elliot
35. Elliot
36. Emma
37. Elliot
38. Elliot
39. Emma
40. Elliot
41. Emma
42. Emma
43. Elliot
44. Emma
45. Emma
46. Elliot
47. Emma
48. Emma
49. Elliot
50. Elliot
51. Emma
52. Elliot
53. Emma
54. Elliot
55. Emma
56. Emma
57. Elliot
58. Emma
59. Emma
60. Elliot
61. Emma
62. Elliot
63. Emma
64. Elliot
65. Emma
66. Elliot
Epilogue
Doctor L
1. Dave
2. Izzy
3. Dave
4. Izzy
5. Dave
6. Izzy
7. Dave
8. Izzy
9. Dave
10. Izzy
11. Dave
12. Izzy
13. Dave
14. Izzy
15. Dave
16. Izzy
17. Dave
18. Dave
19. Izzy
20. Dave
21. Izzy
22. Dave
23. Izzy
24. Dave
25. Izzy
26. Dave
27. Izzy
28. Dave
29. Izzy
30. Dave
31. Izzy
32. Dave
33. Izzy
34. Dave
35. Izzy
36. Dave
37. Izzy
38. Dave
39. Izzy
40. Dave
41. Izzy
42. Dave
43. Izzy
44. Dave
45. Izzy
46. Dave
47. Izzy
48. Dave
Epilogue
Bad Boss
1. Harper
2. Zach
3. Harper
Also by Lilian Monroe
Copyright Ⓒ 2017 Lilian Monroe All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the author except for short quotations used for the purpose of reviews.
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Doctor O
Book 1
1
Valerie
I’m lying in bed staring at the ceiling for the thousandth time. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to focus on my hand as it moves down between my legs, savoring the electric warmth that ripples with every movement of my fingers. I concentrate hard, trying to think of something sexy. Abs, or…muscles. Hands gripping me. The touch of a man’s tongue over me.
Uh…throbbing…members?
I pause and shake my head before taking a deep breath. I move my fingers back and forth a little bit faster. I bite my lip, focusing on that one spot deep inside me, the pinpoint of light that’s spreading ever so slowly in my center.
There’s a warmth growing inside me and I move my fingers faster, traveling up and down between my lower lips. My brow furrows as my fingers circle around my bud with more intensity. I hold my breath.
It’s going to happen. I can feel it. I’m going to feel the shockwaves course through my body, my back is going to arch and my legs are going to fall apart. The anticipation is making my heart hammer in my chest. I concentrate harder, moving my hand faster with the excitement.
And then all of a sudden… nothing.
It’s gone.
My orgasm slips away into oblivion, just like it has every single time before.
This isn’t going to happen. Not today, not ever.
Frustration builds inside me until tears are prickling at my eyelids. I don’t want to cry. I should just accept that this is the way it is. This is who I am. I can’t do it.
Come. Climax. Orgasm. Hurl over the edge into a land of bliss.
Whatever you want to call it, I can’t do it.
I blink the tears away and breathe through my nose. I try to do that breathing they teach in my yoga class. In, two, three, four… Out, two, three, four.
I still feel like I’m going to burst into tears. Apparently, I can’t even breathe properly.
I let my hand fall to my side and open my eyes back up, looking up at the ceiling again. Every single time I feel something close to an orgasm, it somehow escapes me. Maybe I’m thinking too hard or I don’t know how to touch myself properly. Maybe I’m not thinking hard enough.
It’s even worse when someone else tries to give me one. I tense up or think too much about what I’m doing or what I look like or what they’re thinking.
Even when I am able to relax into the moment, it always seems to slip away at the last second. I can feel it. It’s right there. And then, it’s gone.
I can be in the mood and excited and slick with desire, but for some
reason I’ve just never gone over the edge. I’ve never felt the fireworks that everyone describes. The back arching, leg shaking, head melting feeling of pure, unadulterated pleasure.
Not even once, and it kills me.
My ex-boyfriend gave up trying in the end. He’d play with me until I was wet enough for him to enter me, and then take his own orgasm without any worry about my pleasure. I broke it off with him three months ago and since then, like every month and year before that, I’ve been unable to get myself off.
When I broke it off with him, my best friend Emma was there to pick up the pieces. We were out at our local cocktail lounge and I’d had two or three glasses of wine, just enough to be a bit giddy. I remember looking at her and blurting it out:
“I’ve never orgasmed.”
She’d nearly spat out her drink and looked at me in shock. Her mess of brown curls bounced around her face as she turned to look at me. She was wearing her signature bright red lipstick and her mouth hung open.
“You mean in the four years you spent with that idiot he was never able to make you come?”
I’d looked around, worried she was being too loud. We were in our favorite booth in the back corner, with a perfect view of everyone in the bar but shielded from any unwelcome attention. I glanced around to make sure no one had heard her outburst.
She hadn’t cared, as usual.
She never seems to be self-conscious or insecure. Emma walks into any room like she owns it, swaying her hips and walking in with purpose. All eyes are always on her.
And then… there’s me. Where she is all curls and curves, I'm wavy-haired, blonde, lanky. I always seem to feel a bit awkward when men talk to me, like somehow, they’re making fun of me, or they’re just passing the time until they get their turn with her. She’s the center of attention and I’m her sidekick wherever we go.
I don’t mind, not really. I love her to pieces. She’s my rock, my best friend, and my confidante. I couldn’t imagine my life without her by my side. She’s been there for me through thick and thin.
The past three months she’s helped me move into my new apartment, brought me ice cream, and made me laugh when it felt like there was nothing to laugh at. We moved to New York five years ago together and would not have survived without each other. She is the best friend I’ve ever had.
That day, in the darkest corner of our favorite bar, it felt good to open up to her about my orgasm-less existence.
I couldn’t help but smile at the horror on her face when I told her my secret.
“No, I mean I’ve never had an orgasm. Ever. Not just with Bryce. Never.”
Emma put down her glass of wine and brought her hands to her temples. It seemed to be difficult for her to understand what I’d just said. She stared at the table intently, processing this new information.
“Never. As in…Ever? Not once?”
She looked up at me, searching my face. I shrugged, not knowing what to tell her.
“I mean, I’ve tried. Don’t get me wrong.”
I looked at her sheepishly.
“Val, girl. You need to sort this out. I’m telling you this as your oldest and dearest friend, and as someone who has had many mind blowing orgasms. This is a very, very important part of any woman’s life. Did Bryce know? What did he do to try to get you off?”
I’d felt the tears welling up in my eyes when she mentioned him. I didn’t want to tell her how bad our sex life had gotten. How selfish he’d been in bed. How selfish he’d been in general.
She understood without me saying anything, as usual. She just waved the waiter over and dramatically ordered another round of drinks for us and then turned and winked at me. I laughed and the constriction in my throat disappeared.
Emma had been so concerned, so intent on helping me. She gave me tips, she described her most intense orgasms. She told me how they rushed from her center outwards in waves of warmth and pleasure.
She had been so open and candid with me, talking about the way her back arched and her legs trembled. She told me that her partners had actually enjoyed giving her pleasure, it wasn’t a chore to them at all. I listened to her describing her experiences and wished I could feel the same.
Since then, I’ve tried every trick that she taught me. It just seems like I… can’t. I can’t do it. No matter how hard I try I still haven’t felt an orgasm rip through my body. I haven’t been with anyone since Bryce, but I can’t bring myself to go through that again. It’s torture to explain that it won’t happen. I always have to tell the guy that it’s not him, it’s me. Then, I have to see the disappointment in his face as he tries and tries to get me to orgasm only to ultimately fail.
Some guys take it on like a challenge, but it only makes me feel worse when it doesn’t work.
I’ve learned to live with it. Sort of. I’ve thrown myself into my career and most days it feels like that’s enough.
Not today, though. For some reason, today feels different. I’m still staring at the ceiling above my bed, and I think that I might go insane. Maybe there’s something wrong with me. Maybe there’s something in my body that stops me from orgasming. Maybe it’s not mental at all. Maybe it’s physical.
I turn and reach for my phone. I pull up Google and within a millisecond I’m presented with ten thousand reasons that I’m not able to get off.
Doctor Google certainly seems to think there’s something wrong with me.
Apparently, I need to relax—but the next article tells me to tense my leg muscles more.
Oh, wait, no. I just need to try masturbating, duh, as if I haven’t tried that a million times. One webpage tells me to light candles to ‘get in the mood’, and I almost throw my phone across the room.
Candles? Really?
I sigh as I click from one result to another. Hormonal dysfunction, chronic illness, nerve damage, there seem to be countless things that might be wrong. I feel the familiar frustration bubbling up inside me as I keep reading page, after page, after page. All I want is to feel what everyone else can feel. I want that for myself and I want that connection with someone else.
I don’t think that’s too much to ask. It’s a basic human biological function.
The tears are gathering in my eyes again. I don’t want to cry. I’ve been crying for three months. I take a deep breath and gather my resolve.
I have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow for a check up. I’ll ask the doctor if there’s something wrong with me. My cheeks burn at the thought of asking that, of admitting once again that I’ve never felt the rush of an orgasm through my body.
I’m going to a new doctor, and I can’t decide if that makes me feel better or worse. Better, maybe? At least if it’s a disaster, I can just change doctors and pretend it never happened.
I look at my email confirmation from the doctor’s office and see the name: Doctor O’Neill. I frown as I read the email again. There’s no first name. I hope it’s a woman, and I don’t have to embarrass myself in front of yet another man. I let my phone fall beside me and look up once again at the ceiling. It’ll drive me nuts to keep thinking like this.
I can endure a few minutes of embarrassment if it means I get an answer. I’ll ask the doctor tomorrow. Male or female, it doesn’t matter. Doctors have heard worse.
All I want is a simple, little orgasm, is that too much to ask? It doesn’t need to be earth shattering. I’ll settle for a regular old, middle-of-the-week, Wednesday-night orgasm.
That’s a thing, right?
2
Clay
“Good morning, Doctor O’Neill!”
I look over and smile at our receptionist. She’s sitting up straight in her chair, pushing her tits out at me. She bats her eyes as I walk by.
Doctor's Orders (Complete Series) Page 1